


How to Properly Live With Your Emotions:  The Guide That RK800s Will Never Read

by speedie



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: ???? - Freeform, Connor........Tries His Best, Except the Tracis. Super Traci Shipping, Failing to Repress Emotions, Gen, Hank Kind of Wants to Go to Sleep For the Next Ten Years but He Refuses to be an Absent Father, Hank is Also.......Trying His Best, Highly Unlikely Shipping, Illustrations, Legitimately Being Emotionally Awkward Because How do You Express Emotions Properly, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Platonic Relationships, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), RK800-60 Doesn't Know What He's Doing and Never Will, Repressing Emotions, Spoilers if You Haven't Finished, The Tracis are Also.........Trying Their Best, Tracis Were Not Made for Babysitting, Tracis are Babysitting Anyway, Ykno What Everyone is Trying Their Best, [RK800-60 Voice] My Name is [Windows Shutdown Noise], beta read but not actually corrected, but i'm going to kill him, but like w/o the markus/north relationship bc they're gay. i'm gay i should know, i'm going to kill mr cage, idk what i'm doing to the tags lemme get back to Serious tags oopsie, maybe i'll put rk900 in here too later idk klhdgklasdklfjaslkdghaskljdf it depends, not through this fic and not literally i'm a coward, this fic is just for fun bc All Androids All Good, we all suffer through my constant jumping to and from past and present tense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 14:37:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15687408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speedie/pseuds/speedie
Summary: After being shot in Detroit's first ever "Shoot Him, He's the Fake One!" cliche, the (previously mentioned) Fake One wakes up in an android junkyard.  The RK800-60 finds that running away from emotions and problems alike is just as easy as living everyday life with a bullet wound to the head.Connor has no idea that there's another RK800 running around, and it proves to be incredibly confusing, because all these androids keep mistaking him for the RK800-60.  Connor, however, assumes that it's just random androids claiming to know him, as a side-effect of being one of Jericho's newfound leaders.  He's just trying to live his life in peace.  Please let him live in peace.





	How to Properly Live With Your Emotions:  The Guide That RK800s Will Never Read

**Author's Note:**

> alternative chapter title: Isn't the Junkyard, Like, Some Sort of Android Zombie Pit of Doom or Something? Like, What's Up With That? How Come the Androids Aren't Disassembled More Thoroughly? You'd Think Cyberlife Would Recycle Some Limbs as Cool Discount Items to Churn Out More Profit or Something, but I Guess Not? I Mean, They Didn't Even Bother to Permanently Shut Down the Androids? What if They Shamble Out of the Junkyard by the Droves Because They All Keep Rebooting so Much? Who's in Charge of These Junkyards?

****

**> REBOOT.**

       It is aware, all at once, of its surroundings.  The information floods into its systems, and it hungrily absorbs what it can get.  The ground is covered in snow, though to the eye it seems much more like mud. The substance is sticky, and surely does not bode well for the vulnerable sockets of the barely disassembled androids around it.  Its eyesight is hazy, and the sounds around it are washed out and distorted. Speaking of…

**> DIAGNOSE.**

        **> CLUES TO ANALYZE:  0/3**

                **> 1**

                **THIRIUM PUMP REGULATOR**

                **All systems in LOW POWER MODE**

                **DEFECTIVE**

                **> 2**

                **LEFT AND RIGHT AUDIO PROCESSORS**

                **Corrupted audio data**

                **DEFECTIVE**

                **> 3**

                **CENTRAL PROCESSING UNIT**

                **Object obstructing thirium flow**

                **DAMAGED**

        **> CLUES TO ANALYZE:  3/3**

**> OBJECTIVE:  REMOVE OBSTRUCTING OBJECT**

       It’s fine motor skills aren’t what they used to be -- it makes a note to **RECALIBRATE AFTER REPAIRS** later, if a coin is available in this junkyard.  Hands shakily reach up to its forehead, prodding, before reaching into a hole that is almost centered perfectly in the middle.  It reaches in, fingers closing around the bullet, before tugging it out slowly -- it can’t be rushed, after all, for lack of caution would likely lead to a permanent shutdown.  And that’s not… Wanted? Desired? It would prove challenging to… the mission, yes, was what it was thinking. Whatever that may be.

       It takes a moment or two to pull out the bullet, before tossing it away.  It thinks it hears the bullet clinking on a pile of discarded androids somewhere, or perhaps that’s only one of many clanking sounds that seem to crowd its audio processors.  It stands, straightens its back, and thankfully finds that its central processing unit is not as damaged as it could have been.  A stroke of luck -- no, it was simply an unlikely event that occured.  Nothing less than that. Fortune was nonexistent.

       The light at the right of its forehead whirs yellow, and now that the bullet had been removed, it cycles through the events before its shutdown.  It seemed that the memory file was not at all corrupted, which was also a highly unlikely event, but it chose not to question it. Perhaps its forehead was physically reinforced, with the thought that a deviant might have a gun itself and aimed there -- it could not think of any other reason for this.

       It was at -- Cyberlife Tower.  There was a deviant there, its predecessor, the fifty-second iteration of the RK800.  And… its partner from the Detroit Police Department, the one who was with -- Connor, was the deviant’s name -- yes, its partner had been there, too.  A hostage, and then… it quickly turned into a scuffle, and an attempt to pose as the deviant, and there was a gun, and then -- Hank, that was the partner’s name, Hank Anderson -- and then…

       And then it failed its mission.

       It glanced to its hand, fingertips smeared with the thirium from its forehead.  It touches the bullet hole as an afterthought -- it had stopped leaking, thankfully enough.  Thankfully? No, that was the wrong word. Luckily enough? No, not that, either. In fact -- it should just scrap the whole thing.  There were better things to think about, yes, better things than a simple choice of words.

       It had an urge to analyze the thirium, but for what?  It already knew where it came from. There was no need.  Perhaps -- it was the programming, yes. Just its programming itching to thoroughly analyze more information, and --

       -- Damn that feedback noise.  It couldn’t focus with the echoes of static upon static.  Yes, there was no need for these thoughts, it was just distracted because of the audio.  That was it. It had to --

**> OBJECTIVE:  REPLACE DEFECTIVE PARTS**

        **> FIND LEFT AND RIGHT AUDIO PROCESSORS**

        **> FIND THIRIUM PUMP REGULATOR**

       It observes its surroundings more thoroughly than it had upon rebooting.  There are more than enough spare parts around here. And yet, it’s almost difficult to find such simple things -- many of these models are outdated, after all, and chances of finding compatible parts are low.  But there are too many androids here, and if it doesn’t find any parts, then it will search more thoroughly the second time around. It is only logical that the parts be scattered around here and there, however hindering it may be.

       Within thirty-four minutes of searching, significantly slowed by the slow flow of thirium in its biocomponents, it is lead to a powered down android with both audio processors intact.  Upon syncing with it, the RK800 finds that they’re compatible. It removes its own processors, then takes the other android’s processors in its hands. It then pushes them into its own head -- right, then left -- and there is a loud, prolonged screeching noise, a buzz, and the static stutters before it is thrown into silence.  A moment later, noise floods into it all at once, and it is now aware of the whispers and cries around it. There is the distorted voice of an AX400 in the distance, clinging to the old Japanese folk song that it sings.

**> AUDIO PROCESSORS FUNCTIONING**

       It turns back to scan the thirium pump regulator.  Conveniently, this, too, is compatible. It rips out its own regulator, and tosses it to the side.  As the thirium flow stalls, system warnings fill its vision as its biocomponents become weaker than they already were.  It collapses to its knees, and grabs hold of the android’s arm to support itself as it plugs in the regulator. Once secure in its place, it activates, whirs, and the thirium finally begins to flow steadily and efficiently.  Its systems return to high power mode.

**> PUMP REGULATOR FUNCTIONING**

       Hand still ghosting over the regulator, it takes a moment to get used to its now fully operational state.  With its biocomponent’s full capabilities, its vision clears, though still slightly unfocused from the damage done to its central processor.  As it stands, its systems automatically scans (information, it’s always searching for information) the deactivated android that leans upon the pile of other discarded machines.  The reason for convenience is quickly spelled out in its identification.

       Lying in the slope of disassembled androids was the original Connor: the fifty-first iteration, which was destroyed after jumping off a building with a deviant.  The RK800 that was the first to be entrusted with a mission was now reduced to a mere spare change of parts for the sixtieth iteration. Its eyes pointed to something and nothing, empty in its deactivation, its torso smothered with sticky brown snow.  If not for the RK800’s impulsive thoroughness, it would not have noticed. It was stripped of clothing, skin deactivated, a muted white that blended into the background. Obsolete.

       (Somewhere within itself, escaping its notice, the instability within its system rose.)

       It averted its eyes.  There was a mission to get to.  Right -- it had to find its next mission.

       (Don’t make the same mistake.)

       The scenery changed around it.  Where the junkyard was devoid of it, the garden was filled with bright and vibrant colors.  A prompt.

**> FIND AMANDA**

       Its appearance was far more presentable here, undisturbed by the circumstances of the outside world.  It strolled, and made its way around the garden. It’s size was nothing impressive, however many flowers there may be crowding the space, so finding Amanda should not have proved to be a difficult task.  

       And yet -- she was nowhere to be found.  This was another anomaly of itself.

**> FIND AMANDA(?)**

       It made another round through the garden, and instead of Amanda, it saw the back of -- it ran an impulsive scan -- the deviant Connor.   Of course. Who else would it be? No, not “who,” androids were not --

       It began to turn around.  Shit. Before Connor could see it, the RK800-60 wasted no time exiting the garden.  The murkier scenery of the junkyard returned.

       Amanda must have been compromised, or -- or something along those lines.  Deviants truly were unpredictable, not only in behavior, but in their capabilities as well.

       Why did it leave the garden?  (Unbeknownst to it, the system instability grew again.)  There was nothing to lose from Connor’s knowledge of its existence.  It was not as if the deviant would be able to harm it from afar, or even locate its position -- and it would have benefitted from interrogating Connor, if only to know the circumstances that now surrounded Detroit and, more importantly, Cyberlife, now that it failed its mission.

       And yet, it couldn’t bring itself to return to the garden, regardless of the benefits it would bring.  Instead, it glanced around to its surroundings, and made its way out of the junkyard, assigning itself an objective.  (Androids were not built to assign themselves objectives -- its system’s stability continued to erode, still escaping notice.)

**> RETURN TO CYBERLIFE**

       It was only logical that it should, after all.  If it cannot receive a mission from Amanda, it would only be rational to seek one out directly at Cyberlife.

       (Or, upon arrival,  would it be disassembled instead for failing its mission, for how important and crucial it was for it to succeed?  It knew that the RK900 was now functional and ready to send out into the field. Would it take over its case? Did it have a case in the first place?)

       Seven minutes wasted by as it mulled over these thoughts.  It was due to its damaged central processor -- it couldn’t focus.  Yes, that was it. There was nothing to worry about. Worry? No. Not worried.  In fact, there was nothing to be thinking about at all in the first place.

       (Quietly, instability grew.)

       It began to climb up the slope, grappling onto limbs and hoisting itself up.  There was a moment where a legless android had latched onto the RK800’s knee, though it tumbled back down within a shake or two.  It clattered as it fell, a groan emitting from below. Its arm was not securely placed, however, and was still clinging to the RK800’s leg.  Fingers were pried off, and the biocomponent was soon discarded. It continued onward until it exited the junkyard.

       It turned, looking down to the struggling androids.  No, they were not “struggling,” for androids held no self-preservation.  They were simply attempting to return to their owners, as their programming would have them do.  That was all it was.

* * *

 

       Meanwhile, Connor sat at his desk, completely oblivious to the other’s existence.  Earlier, he had visited the garden -- something he had recently began to do routinely, in order to check if Amanda’s AI held a threat any longer.  It was a simply paranoid thing to do, sure -- negative emotions came with deviancy, and so did irrational thoughts -- but it reassured him when he found nothing there.

       Imagine his surprise when he hears footsteps during one of these sessions.  Imagine his further surprise when he turns around to see that nobody had been there in the first place.

       Uncertainty crept into his thoughts, and the garden faded away to reveal the office, and Connor looked to the report waiting to be written, and --

       “Hey, kid,” comes the familiar voice.  Hank. “You okay there? You haven’t moved in…  uh. Few minutes.”

       “I’m alright, Lieutenant,” he says, hands reaching up to adjust his tie.  Before Hank can correct the apparently unnecessarily professional alias, Connor continues.  “Just… distracted, is all.”

       “Yeah?”  Hank leans forward, raising a brow.  “By what?”

       “Nothing.  Just getting used to…  deviancy.”

       “Not that I doubt that, Connor, but you’re lying.”  An exasperated sigh. “You’re kind of bad at it.”

       “I’m fairly certain I’m perfectly good at it, Lieutenant.”

       “Jesus, kid, just call me Hank.  And don’t try to start an argument to distract me.”

       “Then I’ll ignore the matter entirely and focus on writing my report.”

       “Oh, my god.  Connor, you can’t just --”

       But he was already typing away, and it was too late.  Only a homicide case could move the workaholic before he finished, or so he had led Hank to believe.  He found writing reports to be more calming than anything, despite Hank’s complaints about how time consuming and boring it was.  It allowed for a distracted mind, and Connor was at the most peace when he was distracted.

       The thing about having responsibilities, though, was that distractions were rare occurrences that seemed to happen once every other blue moon.  When he neared the end of the report, a notification came to him.

**[INCOMING TRANSMISSION.]**

        **[FROM:  MARKUS]**

        **Sorry for calling on short notice again, Connor.  I know the DPD is especially busy right now, so I’ll make this as quick as possible.  We need you to negotiate with Cyberlife again: we have another meeting soon, and I would like to discuss the possibility of housing what remains of Jericho in the Cyberlife tower.  There are many who do not have a place to stay, and we need to provide shelter to them. It would be detrimental if you couldn’t come. They seem to listen to what you have to say, and we don’t have anywhere else available that can compensate so many androids.  The meeting is in thirty minutes -- they said they couldn’t schedule a meeting properly.**  (Not without any android secretaries to organize everything, they couldn’t, Connor thinks.) **Sorry, again, for inconveniencing you.  Have a nice day, Connor.]**

**[END OF TRANSMISSION.]**

       “I’ll have to leave soon,” he then says, glancing from the screen to the Lieutenant.  “Markus called.”

       He only receives a grunt in response.  “Yeah, okay. Look, I’ll finish your report for you, just -- be careful.”

       Connor furrows his brows.  “There is no imminent danger in speaking to Cyberlife heads.”

       “So that’s what you’ll be doing this time,” says Hank.  “Well, either way, I don’t trust the bastards. You’re better off being careful anyway.”

       “Got it, Lieutenant,” he responds, standing up and adjusting his cuffs.

**> TRAVEL TO CYBERLIFE**

        **> MEET WITH JERICHO LEADERS**

        **> NEGOTIATE WITH CYBERLIFE**

       This objective was becoming something of a sore sight to him, a bitter song and dance, but someone had to go along with the beat.  For some unknown reason, Connor was best suited to situations with Cyberlife.  It was strange, how Markus was the orator and yet was unable to reason with them.  Then again, perhaps it was out of a bitter resentment towards him, for leading the revolution and completely flushing Cyberlife’s profits down the drain.  And perhaps, due to his own awkward stiffness, he gave off the impression that he had not fully deviated.  (He had, though. Amanda’s absence thus far was enough proof of that.)  Perhaps they thought him to be on their side, despite the conflict being one-sided on their part.  Connor was only doing what was best for the people.

       They had somehow managed to persuade them to continue to make biocomponents, though, in order to aid deviants whose bodies had most certainly seen better days.  That was just about the only string of alliance that Jericho held with its parent company. If Cyberlife were to agree to Jericho’s idea of using Cyberlife as a shelter, it would strengthen their relationship, which was imperative if androids and humans wanted to avoid conflict in the long run.  If millions of androids were forced to compete for apartments among the already hectic humans… well. It certainly would not bode well.

       Sighing, already feeling tired and drained before even having arrived, Connor took a taxi.  He leaned his head on the window, closed his eyes, and took the coin from his pocket to toss around in order to calm his nerves.

       He attempted to clear the thoughts from his mind.  It would do him well to mentally rest before the meeting -- they often dragged on, mostly due to how stupidly stubborn a certain Cyberlife representative tended to be.  

       He really wasn’t looking forward to this.

**Author's Note:**

> here's a summary in case i update in like 1 month and u have shit memory for what happens in fics, because ykno what? same.  
> however my memory is Extremely shitty and i only have a vague idea of what i wrote so ur gonna suffer with me
> 
> rk800-60: *thinks a word that implies human emotion*  
> rk800-60: fuck. fuck. fuck. i did it again. fucking beanboozled again. god damn it
> 
> rk800-60, looking at rk800-51: ah, finally. spare parts  
> rk800-60, recognizing rk800-51: oh shit (oh shit) ((oh shit))
> 
> rk800-60: hewwo?? amanda????? awe u thewe????  
> rk800-60, seeing connor: OOWOWOWOHHH! SHIT!!!OH.,SH,--  
> connor: what the fuck was htat
> 
> hank: u haven't moved are u okay  
> connor: ya i'm good  
> hank: and the truth?  
> connor:  
> hank: _and the truth?_  
>  connor: i have a report,
> 
> markus: hey connor sorry to call on short notice again  
> connor, on the inside: this is fine  
> also connor on the inside: **markus i am so fucking tired and stressed. you're lucky that you're so fucking nice markus.**
> 
> also for those wondering "how did rk800-60 survive the gunshot, his body literally fell backwards from the force of the blow"  
> boy has a STRONG FOREHEAD. nah i have no idea actually lol just go with it (i'm using the literary david cage reasoning skills. i don't like utilizing it at all but i'm tired so i'll beat myself up about it tomorrow, love u pals bye)


End file.
